


Stars In The Twinkling Foam

by activevirtues



Category: Supernatural, Torchwood
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-06
Updated: 2006-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-04 00:50:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/activevirtues/pseuds/activevirtues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had learned before that just because Dad's journal didn't mention something didn't mean it didn't exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars In The Twinkling Foam

**Author's Note:**

> This is for sarkastic, for her birthday. It was originally supposed to be for her Captain Jack Sexes Everyone Ever ficathon, but I kind of missed the boat on that, so... yes. Here you are. Sorry it's not the other thing you wanted, but I'm kind of stalled on that, so please accept this offering. Happy birthday! Have some crossover porn. Thanks to siriaeve for beta and general cheerleading. I less than three you!

Nowhere in Dad's journal had there been any mention of demons that could teleport. Nowhere. Dean was damn sure of that. But they had learned before that just because Dad's journal didn't mention something didn't mean it didn't exist.

Whatever had happened, it was bad news. And wherever the demon had put him, it was nowhere on earth. The blue-skinned people with trunks for noses running the booths of the crowded marketplace were a dead giveaway, though the patrons – some with tentacles, some with wet-looking green skin, and a lucky few with both – would have tipped him off if the trunk people had somehow escaped his notice.

He looked around, trying to see if he could find anyone, anyone at all, who looked vaguely like him. The best he could come up with were the tall women – he assumed they were women, because they had boobs, and where Dean was from boobs equaled women, though maybe around here that wasn't how they rolled – posing on a circular dais at the center of the market. Some sort of pink neonish lettering glittered obscenely over their heads, set off against a greenish-tinted sunset, and the women were clearly open for business, because they were giving everyone that passed by their best come-hither looks. They were as human looking as it seemed to get in the market, and even then they were strangely monochrome, with jet-black hair and brows, snow-white skin, and a sprinkle of black freckles across their shoulders, collarbones, and the bridge of their noses.

Dean had seen weird, but he'd never seen this.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a stand that appeared to be a bar, efficiently run by another of the blue trunk people. He walked over, dug in his pocket for money, and attempted to buy whatever passed for a beer on this rock. The trunk man just chittered at him, waving Dean off with his trunk while handing stubby bottles dripping with condensation to other customers with each hand.

"Great," Dean muttered. "Just great."

He sat down on the stoop at the edge of the stall, ignoring the strange looks the other customers were shooting him – because the tentacle dudes thought _he_ was the freak – and tried to come up with a plan.

"I got nothing," he said to himself, staring at his hands. "Shit."

"Problem?"

He looked up. A man was standing in front of him – a real, actual man, with hair and eyes and teeth and everything. Actually, he looked more like a Ken Doll than a normal man. His teeth were a little too straight, his grin a little too gleaming, his eyes just slightly too blue. And he was dressed, improbably, all in leather. If they had been back home, Dean would have hated him on sight.

As it was, he'd never been happier to see anyone in his life. "Uh," he started, finding his voice, "yeah, you could say that."

"Earth, right? I'd say… 20th Century? The 80s, perhaps? No, hair's too short for that. And your jeans aren't acid-washed enough. When are you from?"

Okay, this was different. "What do you mean, _when_ am I from?"

"Well," the man said, still grinning in a way Dean had never seen except in a mirror, "you are aware this is 4699 in the Milaxian Calendar? Humans don't look quite like you anymore. Though I don't recall that they ever did," he added – and the dude actually winked.

"4699 in the who?" Dean asked, silently starting what in Sammy he would have called a freak out, but what in himself was an assessment of the situation.

"That's a no, then. I'm Jack," the man said, holding out his hand. "Captain Jack Harkness. And I can help you, if you need it."

Okay, this was a little too convenient. "_Cristo_?"

Captain Jack didn't flinch. "I'm hurt. I try to help you and you think I'm possessed? I've been to the 21st Century, but I don't remember you all being that cynical." He motioned to the bartender, quickly flashed a bit of paper in a black leather book at him, and was rewarded with two stubby red bottles. Taking a long swig from one, he handed the other to Dean. "Now why don't you tell me what happened and we'll see what we can do to fix it, okay?"

Dean shrugged. "Well," he said, accepting the bottle, "if anyone would believe me, I guess it's you. It started with my brother..."

\---

"A time traveling demon, huh?" Jack asked, finishing off the last of his second beer-thing. "Stranger things have happened, I guess."

"Not to me," Dean said. "This is about as strange as it gets, for me. Stranger things have happened to you?"

"Time traveler," Jack said, pointing at himself. "You see a lot. Blue boxes and doctors that aren't. After a while, nothing fazes you."

Dean nodded, and burped in lieu of a reply. Then he looked at the bottle. Empty. "What exactly are these?"

"The drink? P'tak. Local specialty. Distilled from these bananas that grow in a grove nearby."

"Bananas?" It seemed slightly absurd. Of all the things to have come this far... "As in, long yellow fruit bananas?"

Jack looked at him like he was slow. "Are there another kind?"

"It's just..." Dean began, and then stopped.

"Ah," Jack said. "I think I know."

Dean looked over at him. Jack was staring into his bottle, dark hair falling into his eyes slightly, a bit like Sam looked when they had been on the road for a few days and had to sleep in the car. It surprised him, a little bit, how Jack was nothing like Dean would have expected him to be, had they met in another time. Jack was like him, like Dean had been during those weeks between losing Dad and finding Sammy again. Jack was alone.

Jack looked up at him suddenly, like he could hear everything Dean was thinking. And then he grinned, flare-bright, like he could hear more than that, and said, "I think you need another p'tak. So do I." He signaled to the bartender, who passed two bottles to Jack with his trunk. Dean wondered when Jack had stopped finding it all strange.

Dean took a swig of p'tak. "This is too damn weird for me. I fight ghosts and shit, and this is too weird for me. How do you stand it?"

"My first time," Jack said, "I went to the nearest pub and got incredibly drunk. After the mission, of course. The Time Agency were pretty strict about drinking on the job, and I was a follow-the-rules kind of guy."

"Sure," Dean said. "You and me both."

Jack grinned. His teeth were really, really white, Dean thought about pointing out. "Well, you wouldn't know it now, but I really was. But that first time... there was this guy – he'd managed to steal these rubies, the crown jewels of one of our allies, and then hijacked one of our ships. My mentor in the Agency was sent to retrieve them. He'd escaped to the fourteenth century."

"Our fourteenth century?"

"Yeah. England. Nottingham, actually. He was... for a good thief, he was really not a very smart guy. He died of the plague. The rubies were pretty easy to get after that. But before I left, I went to the local pub, and drank more beer than I had thought was physically possible to consume up until that point in my life. I've been back to that pub a few times through the years. It got touristy. Kind of sad. Beer's still good, though."

"Huh." Dean looked into his bottle. "Mine's empty again."

"That was quick. Glad you're taking my advice to heart."

"I like it. It's... fruity. I don't normally like fruity." Dean frowned. "That's a lie. But don't tell Sam. He'd think it meant he was manlier than me."

"Your secret is safe with me," Jack said, laughing. "You know what works better than alcohol for forgetting the weirdness?"

"More alcohol?" Dean suggested.

"Sex." Jack raised an eyebrow as he said the word – announced it, more like, rolling it off his tongue like he was doing dirty things to it.

"Um." He took another swig from his p'tak. Still empty.

"Would you like to see my ship? It's… big. And we can bring more p'tak." Jack's face was suddenly very close, and Dean could feel Jack's breath on his face. "It'll be fun. And not at all weird."

Then Jack was kissing him, swiftly, the way Dean would have kissed a girl who had just seen a ghost for the first time and wasn't really thinking clearly. Maybe that was why Dean was nodding. "Sounds good."

Jack grabbed four more bottles and motioned for Dean to follow him. The market was still weird – that wasn't going to change no matter how much p'tak he had in him – but Jack seemed comfortable in it, like he fit the same way that Dean did with a sawed-off shotgun in his hand. It made Dean feel a little less out of place, a little more comfortable in his own skin, and he felt himself loosening, his stride matching Jack's. The sounds of the marketplace seemed musical, suddenly, like how Sam's voice hit a cadence when he spoke Latin and made everything click together.

And then – "Ow!"

"Yeah, sorry. I forgot to warn you." Jack pressed a button somewhere – Dean heard something go _shhhhik_ – and Jack's ship blinked into visibility, the wing he'd just run into obvious in a way that made Dean rub his head and frown at his shoes. "It's flash, I know, but Time Agents insist on flash. Old habits die hard."

"And speaking of dying hard – " Dean began, then paused. "Forget it," he said. "I got nothing."

"Not nothing," Jack said, sidling up to him until Dean's shoulder was back against the body of the ship. His voice dipped seductively low. "From where I'm standing, you've got plenty." And there was that mouth again – breath warm against his skin, tongue sliding obscenely along the seam of Dean's lips in a way that he would have applauded in any other circumstance. But Dean was drunk on that weird-ass banana stuff, and enjoying the whole time traveling demon experience more than he was sure the demon had thought he would, and while in theory he was more than comfortable with a guy sticking his hand down his pants –

Fuck. Jack's hand was down Dean's pants. Dean's head slammed back against the ship, probably giving him a bruise on top of his bruise but doing absolutely nothing to distract him from the feel of Jack's hand wrapped around his cock, while all the while Dean's hips were doing their best to convince Jack that he really, really needed to go faster, and all Dean could think was that the blue trunk people should have been the weirdest thing about today.

"We'll get inside," Jack murmured, "and I'll suck you so hard you won't remember your name. Then I'll fuck you with your boots on. How does that sound?"

\---

After that things got a little fuzzy. Thankfully Dean could remember a few things from the night before – he kept catching glimpses of scenes from the night when he closed his eyes, little flashes of sun-bronzed skin moving around him, under him, flashes of gleaming white teeth in a mouth very carefully working the length of his cock. And against his eyelids he could see Jack over him, head thrown back like it was all too much to take. This morning Dean's limbs felt looser, definitely, the kind of energetic lethargy that only ever came after sex. Not just sex – fucking, the way a man was meant to fuck, hard and fast and messy and drunken and just rough enough to make it all that much better.

Dean remembered hearing things, too – a stuttered "Yes, _fuck_, D-dean" as Jack shoved into him, harsh breaths in his ear that sounded sometimes like a name and sometimes like a title, and his own cry when he came in white-hot spurts across Jack's perfect stomach. He couldn't remember what he said, though he knew he said something. Could be he didn't want to.

Jack had untangled them soon after, disappeared into the front of the ship and left Dean to sleep off the p'tak and the sex, the way Dean would have if Jack had wanted to cuddle or something like that. Dean slept like the dead – better than most of the dead Dean came into contact with, come to that.

"Where do you want me to drop you?" he recalled Jack asking as he left Dean to sleep.

"Sammy," he had mumbled, and turned into the pillow. He hoped Jack had figured out what he meant.

He kicked the blankets off – they were soft, like feathers if feathers were blanket-size – and pulled his boxers on, wondering how he hadn't noticed the size of the ship when he'd got on.

Then he kicked over four empty bottles of p'tak and remembered. Jack had been right about the drink cutting down on the weirdness. He hadn't looked over the ship in anything more than a cursory, "this is the place we're going to be having sex" kind of way. But it was sleek, all curved metal and futuristic – heh – lines, and it fit Jack so well that he wondered if Jack called it "baby" the way he did the Impala.

"You'll be home in a few minutes," Jack called from the next room. "We're just coming over Nebraska."

"I've always wanted to come over Nebraska," Dean said, almost automatically.

Jack laughed. "I aim to please. Apparently, so do you."

"Yeah," Dean said. "Something like that."

Jack was as good as his word. Five minutes later, at, as Jack pronounced in an airline pilot voice that Dean was positive he'd heard Jack practicing earlier, "Four fifty-seven AM local time," he landed the ship in the parking lot of the motel next to the Impala. "Good God, she's beautiful," he said, pretty much in the same tone he'd used before he swallowed Dean's cock.

"I know," Dean said. "She's mine."

"Can I –"

"No." Dean smiled. "But I'll let you touch her."

\---

Sam came out of the motel room as Jack discovered the weapons cache in the trunk. "You have a lajatang!" Jack was exclaiming. "Could I possibly trade you for a pair of Raxacoricofallipatorian daggers I've got? I've been wanting a lajatang and haven't had luck finding one."

"Nah," Dean said. "You'd be surprised how often we use that one. Silver-coated. Good for werewolves. Nice long reach."

"Fine. I guess you more than paid for your ride back." Jack winked. "I think you've got a calling."

"I... what? What do you think I am, some kind of... intergalactic space hooker?" Dean slapped his hand away from the Impala.

"A _what_?" Sam said from the doorway. "Dean, who is this guy? Where have you _been_?"

"...Gotta go!" Jack said, and was back in the ship and taking off before Dean could say anything.

"Dean, what just happened?" Sam asked, and then paused. "Do you have space herpes?"

"Time traveling demon to the first question, shut up or I will hurt you to the second. I'm going to bed." He watched the trail off Jack's ship disappear, then turned to go inside.

"I could leave a few singles by the dresser if it'd make you more comfortable," Sam said, and followed him in.


End file.
